Daughter of the Moon (The Moon People, Book Two) (64 page)

The seer narrowed her eyes, bending down to look Netya over. "And you feel nothing else? You are not tired? Tender? When was the last time you bled?"

"Not long ago," Netya lied, knowing that the woman was describing exactly the same symptoms Adel had looked for.

After a moment the seer's inquisitive gaze relented, and she nodded to herself, as if the answer was obvious. "I recall hearing of the Sun People's weakness to the seasons. Sickness takes a hold of you even when you are young and healthy. But you will recover soon?"

Netya nodded.

"Hm." It was hard to tell whether the seer was pleased or disappointed. "I will bring you more food. You had best keep it down this time."

As the seer exited the tent Netya realised that she was trembling. She turned away quickly to hide her agitation from the other woman sitting across from her, pretending to clean herself up, but she could sense her companion's malign stare lingering on her back.

She could not hide her condition from them forever. If the seers did not guess within the next few moons then everyone else would once she began showing the more obvious signs. But perhaps, if she could keep it a secret for long enough...

Then what? What difference would it make? If Miral did not desire a sun-born child in his pack then he would rid himself of it one way or another. Concealing the truth from her captors would only be another strain on her already thread-thin willpower.

Yet still, as she rinsed her mouth with water and accepted the seer's second bowl of fruit with a slightly steadier hand, she resolved to keep her child a secret nonetheless. It was her one remaining duty now: to protect her daughter in any way she could. If there was even a chance that her deception might contribute to that, then it was a chance she would willingly embrace.

Netya's only confidant in Miral's pack was Nekare, and even he was little more than an open ear amidst a sea of hostility. She talked very little these days, for even the distraction of conversation seemed hollow, but from time to time the male would duck into her tent when the other women were away and linger long enough to share a few words. Netya learned that he was not an esteemed warrior or hunter, which at first confused her, for he seemed to hold far greater status within the pack than most, but once she questioned him about it he revealed that his prestige had been earned through his skills as a scout. The subject of his capture near the creek seemed to shame him greatly, for he had long prided himself on being invisible to the eyes of his clan's enemies and as silent as a shadow in the dark. He had scouted the dens of many of the other great alphas in his youth, bringing Miral knowledge that had allowed him to respond early to their attacks and counter with aggression of his own that struck directly into the heart of his enemies' territories.

Nekare spoke fondly of his past glories, but Netya sensed a hint of melancholy in the tales he told. The male was beyond his prime, edging ever closer to the years that would mark him as an elder, and his failure at the creek seemed a poignant reminder of that. She entertained thoughts, briefly, of asking for his help in slipping away, for he clearly knew the nearby land better than anyone, but Nekare's compassion for her was not the tender sympathy of a true friend. Rather, her presence appeared to make him uncomfortable and conflicted, and at times her conversations with him felt strained, especially when she spoke of Miral. Even though he was friendlier to her than most, she did not trust him to side with her over his alpha.

"Why do you spend your time with me?" she asked one afternoon, as the patter of rain beat down on the tent walls around them. "I saw your daughter practising to dress those furs outside. Would you not rather be helping her?"

"She will have taken them in out of the rain by now. Besides, it is not man's work."

"And this is?"

He glared at her. "I will leave you be if you want."

"No," she replied hastily. "I do not mind. It is nice to have someone who speaks to me as though I am not a witch."

"You are a witch. But... you are also a woman of honour." Nekare shifted awkwardly.

"You told me that at the creek. You also said I was foolish."

"Ah, yes I did. Foolish honour is honour nonetheless. I must accept it, even if my brothers and sisters will not." He pressed his lips together in concern. "Especially if they will not."

A moment of silence passed as Netya pondered over his words, then she spoke again. "If you believe you owe me some debt for sparing your life, there is no need."

"Is there? Is there not?" He tapped his knee impatiently. "They say a seer holds a part of every soul she has ever touched. You gave me my life back when it was yours to take."

"I did not do it so that I could make any sort of claim on your soul. I would not even know how."

"But you made a claim nonetheless. You spared me, and I..." He stood up suddenly, casting his hands in the air. "I must show you the same honour in return, little though it may be. I can never repay such a mercy, but I will not torment you like my brothers and sisters do."

"What if you could repay me?" Netya said, a dim sense of hope struggling to rear its head within the depths of her soul. "What if there was a way?"

Nekare shook his head. "Do not think to make such demands of me. I know you want to go back to your own clan, but I cannot help you. My honour, my life—they would be forfeit. And I would never go against the will of my alpha."

The glimmer of hope died, and Netya did not speak of it again. There was no point. With every passing day the strength that might have once spurred her to try and escape grew dimmer, replaced instead by creeping acceptance of her situation. It was better to keep Nekare as a companion than to drive him away with talk of betraying his clan. He was a man of honour, but his loyalty to his pack was greater than any sense of obligation he felt toward her.

With that final path to freedom closed off, she accepted that she would never leave this place. Not while she was still alive.

—44—

The Broken Blade

Life among Miral's pack had become routine. The days began to pass in a blur, each sunrise and sunset bleeding together as the wet season rolled in ever more viciously. Netya knew she could not have been there for very long, but it still felt like an eternity. Her existence was miserable, living between one meal and the next, looking forward to the moments when she could sleep, hoping only for pleasant dreams and not the nightmares of cold water and dead faces that had returned to haunt her. She dreamt often that she was back in the cave beneath the waterfall on the night of the flood, choking beneath the raging torrent as it battered her back and forth. It must have been close to a full year since that night, Netya reflected. She thought she had overcome the nightmare, but now it was back, more terrible than ever, and this time there was no one to hold her when she awoke in the middle of the night.

She was weak, just as Miral reminded her every day. She had not moved beyond the dream, only silenced it for a short while. The vision of the blue world was fleeting, coming and going as it pleased, and it never seemed to last for long. The spirits did not answer her call. She was without her white wolf to guide her. How much of her prior strength had truly been hers? Caspian and Adel, Fern and the rest of her pack-sisters—they had made her believe she was strong. That she was something more than a foolish young sun wolf.

Adel was wrong. I understand my place now.

The days became easier the more she embraced it. As long as she interacted only with the other women and their work, she was left mostly to her own devices. The men tired of tormenting her when they realised how little spirit the captive sun wolf had left, and even Miral's treatment of her became more affectionate in tandem with the obedience she showed him. He seemed to regard her these days as something akin to a pet. A plaything, not quite worth recognition as an equal, but amusing to keep nearby nonetheless. And as long as she spoke only when she was spoken to, did as he said, and continued to accept the phrase he had taught her, he did not strike her or burn her hair again.

"Prepare my food for me," he instructed as she stepped into his tent one evening. He stood bare-chested with his back turned to her, stretching against one of the poles that displayed a wolf's skull upon its tip. The alpha was on his feet again, walking easily without the aid of a stick to support him, and he seemed eager to return to the hunt now that his broken leg had healed.

Keeping her eyes obediently at her feet, Netya knelt down in front of the broad, flat stone Miral kept beside his fire and began to unwrap the piece of succulent meat that had been placed upon it. The smell made her mouth water, the aromatic fragrance of the leaves the leg of aurochs had been roasted in working its way into her nostrils. Miral liked to eat off a piece of warmed stone rather than from a wooden bowl, using a pointed stick to fish pieces of food into his mouth so as not to dirty his hands.

"Here," the alpha said once he was done stretching, slipping a flint knife from his waist tie and pressing it into Netya's palm. Her fingers resisted curling around the sharpened piece of rock, for Miral's craftspeople grew angry at her every time she attempted to handle tools.

"You cannot cut my food without a knife, Sun Wolf," he said, his voice deceptively tender. "Do not be afraid. I trust you not to slit your alpha's throat." A smile spread across his lips, and to illustrate his point he lifted Netya's hand, knife and all, to his neck, allowing the sharp edge to graze across the stubble beneath his chin in a slow arc. "Not that you have it in you to kill. But when you first came here, you might have tried, yes? Perhaps in a moment of anger, or fear. Just as you tried to thrust that spear at me the night I slew your friends." He dragged Netya's hand up to his lips and kissed the edge of the knife. "You understand now, don't you, that it was never in your heart to kill. And you will never raise a blade or your wolf's claws to a member of our pack."

"I will not, Alpha," she replied. Her fingers had barely been tight around the knife when she had intended to cut meat with it, but as soon as Miral lifted her hand to his neck her whole arm had gone limp.

"Are you thankful that I have shown you your rightful place? That I took you away from that witch's lies and into a true clan of our people?"

"Yes. Adel was wrong. I understand my place now." It was better this way. There was nothing she could have ever done to resist Miral, even when she'd had the will to do so. He was an alpha, and she was just a small, frail thing, too respectful of life to ever consider taking it. What use was there in holding on to her hate for him? He rewarded her when she was obedient, and the smell of the meat was wonderful. Perhaps he would allow her a mouthful of it after he finished eating.

He patted her cheek gently, then stood up and returned to his stretching. "Perhaps there will be another gathering next summer, now that Khelt and Ulric are at one another's throats again," the alpha mused. "I shall look forward to speaking with Adel once more, if she has not slunk back into the shadows that birthed her by then. I think she will be pleased to learn that her apprentice has grown into such a dutiful female under my guidance. And with such little encouragement, too."

The burn of Netya's shame was a distant thing. She was proof, was she not, that the alpha had been right all along. That Adel's followers were weak. Women playing at taking on the authority of men. A part of her rebelled violently at her own thoughts, but it was a tiny, broken fragment. Soon forgotten, and with little left to bring it back to life.

If Miral was speaking of the next gathering, then perhaps he intended not to kill her before then. She might have the chance to be a mother. To raise her daughter quietly among this pack, in a way that would meet with Miral's approval. That, at least, was something.

She worked the knife back and forth, carefully sawing small pieces of meat off the bone. She took care not to let any of the tender slices fall apart, placing them at the edge of the rock nearest the fire so that they would stay warm. Once she had carved half the aurochs' leg she piled the cut meat and some of the roasting leaves upon a flat piece of slate and brought the meal over to Miral, who rewarded her with a light touch of her hair before sitting down to eat.

The alpha lounged upon his furs on the opposite side of the fire, back half turned to her as he gazed up at some of the painted patterns decorating the tent walls.

"Tomorrow I think I shall go south and walk the forests with my hunters," he said. "I must stretch my legs and taste blood again before winter. A pity we already have enough food. But perhaps I will catch some other prey, hm? One of Adel's pack wandering away from that valley. Or maybe we will head farther south and to the west. I would like to see whether Octavia has summoned the courage to step out of her swamp again."

Netya focused on cutting the rest of the meat, pushing away the fear she felt for her former packmates. She could do nothing to protect them. If Miral sought to hunt them down, then he would do it, and afterwards she would have to sit at his fire and listen as he recounted the bloody tale.

"I may have to leave you for some time," the alpha continued in between mouthfuls. "So before I go, we must talk."

"Talk of what, Alpha?"

Miral glanced her way. "Of the things you have been keeping from me."